


Taking the Piste

by AbbyVegas (nomnom2014)



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff and Humor, One Shot, Russia, Skiing, Switzerland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 13:35:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6987181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomnom2014/pseuds/AbbyVegas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucas North, undercover on the Ski Patrol in the Swiss Alps, meets a saucy American snowboarder who teaches him a lesson he'll never forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking the Piste

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Spooks/MI-5 fanfiction. A/U. Takes place roughly after Series 8.

**"Snowboarders ruin the piste.** They shave off all the snow so it's like an ice patch, and they sit in the middle of the piste, chatting with friends in a line, so you have to jump over them as you come over the crest of a hill."

                   -- Richard Armitage, interview in _The Independent,_ 7 April 2013

* * * *

**GSTAAD, SWITZERLAND.**

**TUESDAY, 0930 HOURS.**

**ATOP MT. ANSPITZER, HÜENERSPIL TRAIL.**

Lucas North eased himself off of the chairlift and made his way over to the trailhead. Adjusting his ski-mask, he surveyed the picturesque scenery and took a deep breath. _The air up here suits me,_ he thought.

He'd been sent to Switzerland on a mission to investigate a suspected crime syndicate hiding in plain sight on the mountain. Suspicious postings on Internet chat rooms under the moniker "Anti-Democratic Imperialists" had made reference to a splinter cell here in Gstaad called the "Death Armored Squadron."  Two ski instructors -- both Russian nationals -- were supposedly the masterminds of the local operation. Harry suspected that weapons were being smuggled along with drugs and other contraband, possibly in preparation for an attack on British soil.

As usual, his mission was not without danger. _But there were worse places to be sent,_ Lucas reminded himself as he swung his emergency pack over his shoulder. His cover -- posing as a member of the Ski Patrol -- had been his own idea. A few days skiing in the Swiss Alps would cheer him up a bit, and get him out of dreary, lonely London.

At the thought of London, Lucas's eidetic memory swept him back to The Grid, to his last conversation with Harry. 

_Lucas was pacing back and forth inside his boss's office like a caged animal. "I wish I had your full confidence, Harry. I'm not a double agent. What's it going to take to convince you that I'm not working for the bloody Russians?"_

  _Harry glanced from Lucas to Tariq, his face a carefully constructed mask of neutrality. "There's a Russian connection on this mission, Lucas. I wouldn't be sending you in if I didn't have absolute confidence in your allegiance and your abilities."_

_"But just in case, can I have your iTunes password before you leave?" Tariq asked. Lucas shot him a dirty look and stormed out. Harry watched him go, and finished off the remaining Scotch in his glass._

_Tariq lingered in the doorway. "Are you sure that's the best idea, Harry -- sending Lucas back in with the Russians?"_

_Harry poured himself a third Scotch, not that Tariq was counting. "Actually, the only Russian connection with this case is two guys smuggling knockoff casual men's apparel into Switzerland  through Moscow." He gazed longingly into the amber liquid. "I just need to get Lucas off The Grid for a few days so we can plan his 'Grats on Getting Out of the Gulag' party. Otherwise, Ruth will never let me know a moment's peace."_

  _Tariq nodded soberly. "I sent him an e-card, but maybe it went to his spam folder--"_

  _"Crikey!" Harry exclaimed. "This isn't my bottle of_ poison _Scotch, is it?"_

Atop the mountain, Lucas realized he was risking frostbite from his overlong and nonsensical flashback sequence. Without further thought he launched himself down the trail. He skied with gusto, reveling in the fresh mountain air on his face. The alpine peaks and gray-white sky became a blur in the distance; he saw only the piste before him and heard only the low hum of his skis gliding over the powdery snow.

Suddenly, as he turned a corner, his skis slid out from underneath him. _WHAMMO!_ He fell back to the ground, hard.

"Hey! You okay?" a voice called out. Lucas's disciplined mind parsed it out automatically: English language; female; American accent. "Should I call the Ski Patrol?" A worried face -- a woman -- hovered over him. "Holy shit -- you ARE the Ski Patrol! What happened?" She offered Lucas her hand to help him get back up on his feet.

"Thanks," Lucas muttered, brushing snow off his parka, more to occupy his hands than anything else. He felt slightly embarrassed, although he knew not why. "Must've hit a patch of ice."

The woman nodded and hoisted her snowboard back onto the trail. At the sight of her equipment, Lucas's nostrils flared.

"Listen, don't blame _me._ I was behind you." She grinned. "Not a bad view, either, if I may say so." Snapping her boots into the snowboard bindings, she flashed Lucas another, shyer smile and shoved off down the trail.

"Bloody hell," Lucas whispered, staring after the saucy snowboardress. _What_ was _it with him and American women?_

* * * *

**TUESDAY, 1800 HOURS.**

**GSTAADERHOF - LUCAS NORTH'S SKI-CHALET.**

Relaxing in a hot bath, Lucas tried to clear his mind of jumbled thoughts. Did Harry still distrust his true motives? Had he left the stove on at his flat back in London? Could Ros Myers _really_ be counted on to stop in and feed Vladimir, his pet chinchilla? (Probably not.)

He shook his head and sighed. The facts were like Tetris shapes, falling faster than he could sort them out. 

That mysterious woman on the ski-slope. _Why couldn't he stop thinking about her?_ He didn't even _like_ snowboarders, as a rule, although she had seemed friendly enough. Maybe a little _too_ friendly. Could she have hidden motives? Perhaps she was aligned with the Russians and their smuggling racket.

Lucas rubbed his eyes; he could feel exhaustion creeping in. He'd made no progress on the case thus far. Also, "Simple Man" by Lynyrd Skynyrd was running through his eidetic memory on repeat, and it was really starting to annoy him.

* * * *

**WEDNESDAY, 0730 HOURS.**

**DIE GLORREICHE KARTOFFEL RESTAURANT - BREAKFAST BUFFET.**

The following  morning, the sassy snowboardress found herself standing on the breakfast buffet line next to Vaughn Edwards.

 "I see you've met Lucas North," he murmured coolly. "Or should I say John Bateman?"

 She turned and looked him straight in the eye. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Edwards smiled slyly. "Fancy a slice of breakfast pizza? Ooh, bacon-bits!"

Then he made a big mistake: he turned his back to her. Within seconds, she had him immobilized, a shrimp-fork pressed against his carotid artery.

"I think you're on the wrong show, my good sir," she growled through clenched teeth.

Edwards trembled. "I -- he's John Bateman. The script...I was _cast...!"_

The seething snowboardress rolled her eyes. "Look, the writers on this show couldn't even come up with a _title_ that wasn't a racial slur in American English. ONE WORD, that was all they had to think of, and they blew it." She curled her lip. "This plotline, your character. We're done here. You were a jackass on _Downton Abbey_ and you're pretty much a wanker on _Game of Thrones_ too."

Edwards opened his mouth to object, but she silenced him with a withering look. "If I see you anywhere _near_ Lucas, I swear to God I will go Khal Drogo on your ass. Golden crown and all." She turned tail and stormed off.

Edwards stumbled to a corner table and fell weakly into a chair. _Who was she?_ He reached with trembling fingers for his fey little espresso cup; coffee spilled down the front of his ugly ski-sweater. A small Swiss child pointed at him, and laughed, and laughed.

* * * *

**WEDNESDAY, 0945 HOURS.**

**MT. RIESEN-HÜGEL, HORNFLUH TRAIL.**

Lucas sat alone on the lurching chairlift, his mind too consumed with memories to process the present. Elizaveta... Russia... Sarah Caulfield... Section D. When would life ever feel normal again? A single tear ran down his aquiline nose and froze solid just as lens-flare flashed atop a distant craggy peak.

Down below on the mountainside stood Bertrand von Ümlaut, Ski Patrol manager. He watched his newest hire riding up & down the round-trip chairlift circuit for the seventh consecutive time.

"Fucking human resources," he muttered neutrally to himself in French, Swiss-German, and that other language no one's ever heard of.

* * * *

**WEDNESDAY, 1030 HOURS.**

**MT. TASCHENMESSER. EGGLI TRAIL.**

_Another gorgeous day for skiing,_ Lucas thought, squinting in the bright sunlight. If only he could make some headway on his mission, the day would be bloody perfect.

Lucas skied up behind a group of snowboarders chatting on the ridge. Surprise, surprise -- the snowboardress from yesterday was among them.

He leaned in close; she smelled faintly of _gaufrettes._ Wicked temptress!

"Excuse me madam, you're blocking the piste," Lucas murmured in her ear, his voice as deep and velvety as a simmering pot of chocolate fondue.

She stared at him for a moment with an odd little smile on her face. _The beauty of the Swiss Alps fades in comparison to this man's jawline,_ she thought. Then she composed herself. "Lucas," she said, "I have some information you need. Meet me at the hot tub at 2200 hours tonight." She smiled seductively. "And come alone."

* * * *

**WEDNESDAY, 2130 HOURS.**

**GSTAADERHOF - LUCAS NORTH'S SKI-CHALET.**

 Lucas gazed ruefully at the swimsuits laid out on his bed, and felt despair rise in his heart. _Why hadn't he brought anything except Speedos?_

"Stupid, stupid," he sighed, and picked out a neon-green zebra-striped number that left little to the imagination. He hadn't the time for romantic interludes -- but this American minx might just hold the key to cracking the case and earning Harry's trust back.

* * * *

**WEDNESDAY, 2200 HOURS.**

**HOT TUB, SELTSAME-AUSSCHLAG PAVILION, GSTAADERHOF.**

Venturing out to the hot tub, Lucas hugged his robe tightly against the cold night air and forced himself to look upon the frothing waters. Bile rose in his throat. He closed his eyes... _he was back in Russia...._ it was all too real. Darshavin's ultimate manipulation! It had involved a Soviet-era jacuzzi, a jug of Carlo Rossi chardonnay, and _Eastern Promises_ YouTube video clips ("all the Viggo scenes!") clumsily strung together. The whole mess had made waterboarding seem like a picnic in comparison.

Lucas shuddered at the memory, forced his eyes open. He saw that the snowboardress was already sitting in the hot tub, sipping from a Champagne flute and looking up at him with mischief in her eyes. 

"Sorry, I -- I was in another place for a moment," he stammered.

"Don't apologize," she said. "I managed to get myself in here without you seeing my backside in a swimsuit. I couldn't be more pleased."

"You can't mean that." Lucas lowered himself carefully into the water, noticing _her_ noticing _him_...

"Oh, but I do," she purred. "I also considered hot-toddys by the roaring fire, you know. I have an _après-ski_ outfit, lots of marabou-feathers. It's fairly horrifying. My suite at the chalet--" Her words caught in her throat. "...it has a three-way mirror."

"I'm sorry," Lucas murmured. His blue eyes seemed to penetrate deep into her soul. "Is there anything I can do?"

She grimaced, fighting back the inevitable tears. The memory was still so fresh. "You're not the only one who's considered suicide, Lucas," she finally said in a small voice. Pain was etched on both their faces. They sat in companionable silence for a time, not needing to talk -- just two broken souls, finding solace in one another's company. 

Finally, the snowboardress snapped back to reality. Her gaze rested upon Lucas's Blake-inspired chest tattoo, and the mischievous smile returned to her face. "Back to _you_ , Lucas North." She sidled up beside him and pressed a full Champagne flute into his waiting hands. "I believe we have business to discuss." 

"I'm all ears."

"Not in that Speedo, you're not."

* * * *

**THURSDAY, 0930 HOURS.**

**DIE GLORREICHE KARTOFFEL RESTAURANT - BREAKFAST BUFFET.**

 Lucas tucked into a plate heaped high with chocolate chip pancakes.

"Hungry after last night?" asked the snowboardress. She arched an eyebrow at him.

"Very." He set down his fork. "We'd make a great team, you and me," he said. "Ever think of joining MI-5?"

She bit her lip. HARD. "Not really. Now that you've got those garment-trafficking goons off the streets, you must be headed back to London? What were they called, again? Anti-Democratic Imperialists..."

"...Death-Armored Squadron." Lucas smiled. "The Russian connection.... A.D.I.D.A.S.... tracksuits. How did I not put that together? Anyway, yeah, London. How about you?"

"Oh, I think my work here is done," she remarked cryptically. Across the dining room, Vaughn Edwards caught her eye. She raised the pitcher of hot maple syrup as if toasting him, then pointed to her head, then pointed to him. Edwards' miniature espresso-thimble fell to the floor and shattered.

The snowboardress turned to Lucas, a million-watt smile on her face. "If I were a betting woman, Lucas North, I'd wager you've got some of your best adventures ahead of you in Series 9."

"Series 9?" Lucas asked. He looked around to see what the fracas was about, but saw only a pathetic old man flailing in a puddle of coffee on the floor.

When he turned back around, the mysterious snowboardress was gone.

* * * *

**EPILOGUE:**  

Lucas returned home to London, Section D fêted him with a big party, and Series 9 continued unmolested by Vaughn Edwards and the John Bateman storyline. Lucas retired from MI-5 a hero, and lived a quiet life by the seaside with his adoring nymphomaniac theoretical physicist girlfriend.

The snowboardress is keeping busy Stateside, her secret identity intact. Her greatest achievement to date: figuring out how the Seat-Heat works in her station-wagon (sort of).

The BBC and its writers are hard at work on a new show, "Fags," a gritty drama about day-to-day life in a cigarette factory.


End file.
